


I Live Among You (Well disguised)

by PoliticallyObsessedScholar



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Gen, Happy Ending, Kidnapping, M/M, Rape, Sexual Abuse, Spoiler Alert: Stiles is freed, Violence, no graphic description of rape, not stockholm, teacher student non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-28
Updated: 2017-10-13
Packaged: 2018-12-08 02:46:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11637336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoliticallyObsessedScholar/pseuds/PoliticallyObsessedScholar
Summary: Stiles is used to a particular kind of evil, the only problem is that's not the kind of evil he should be worried about.





	1. Before

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [My Pretty Boy in chains](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5892601) by [RougueShadowWolf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RougueShadowWolf/pseuds/RougueShadowWolf). 



It was all alcohol's fault that he was seated on a cold metal bench freezing and restless. Stiles had gotten drunk off of his father's stash the day Scott told him they were going to try out for lacrosse. He's still not completely convinced that the decision wasn't wholly inspired by alcohol's antecedent dulling of cognitive abilities. He'd gone on a rant about how sport cultivated the violence, blood-thirst, and tribalism of spectators, staring at his ceiling, hands waving ineffectually to emphasise his points. He maintained that his rant had been worthy of publication in a peer-reviewed journal (he'd had stats and an argument about links to the military industrial complex, ok?) even though Scott had succinctly dismissed it with a distracted nod and "yeah, so tomorrow at 4 then?" 

Sometimes, he thought grumpily, a seat could be eminently comfortable and then the next it could be an instrument of torture. He knew what he was talking about too, not like that irritating twit Greenburg who grumbled that his English homework was torture.  _Greenburg_ had never been strung up, or flayed, or electrocuted in a basement, or beaten to a pulp, or... Anyway, he knew what he was talking about and this metal bench was definitely, one-hundred-percent torture. 

With a sigh he looked up at where his dad was sitting in the stands, looking frustrated, and then out at where Jackson was running in a circle getting high fives from the team and whooping. Yeah, there was no way he was getting sent onto the field in the next few minutes. Probably not the rest of the game if he was brutally honest. He could go to the bathroom and nobody would miss him.

The weather was starting to get chilly, not that anyone he knew cared about it, and he decided to fight the chill by jogging to the bathroom. It was all painfully routine, exactly like an average Friday night in Beacon Hills. Up until he got stabbed in the neck with a needle. Well he assumed it was a needle; the sudden pinch followed rapidly by the veins in his neck flowing cold, and the alarming fact that his vision was greying while narrowing was pretty clear evidence. Someone's vowels were coming deep and elongated from behind him. He barely made out "that's it... go to sleep now" as he collapsed to the floor like he was in a fucking Hardy Boys novel. Which wasn't exactly abnormal either and didn't that say - 

The fact that he'd been stripped down to his batman patterned boxers was not only mortifying but slightly intimidating. He could feel his heartbeat rise, his breath quicken, and the concrete walls seem to move closer. Closing his eyes and trying to focus on his other senses didn't help. The cold metal of a chain wrapped around his ankle, the goosebumps from being completely uncovered, and the unfamiliar lumps of an unfamiliar mattress only served to amplify his terror.

Oh God, he hoped this was just an intimidation tactic. Thanks to Peter it wasn't one he was unfamiliar with. He could deal with this. He could deal with this until the cavalry arrived. He'd held up a werewolf, while treading water, for two whole hours. He could deal with psychological intimidation and mind games, psychological intimidation and mind games were child's play.

Besides, even if Scott hadn't noticed he was missing yet, his father definitely would have. He'd been there at the game just as fruitlessly as every other game he'd attended. His father would alert the department and then all the deputies he'd known and irritated into loving him since childhood would be out in full force. Not to mention two alpha werewolves and their respective betas. 

Heart-rate and breathing under control he opened his eyes and started to scan the room with a detached air. Concrete walls and floors. A trapdoor set in the roof. No sign of stairs or a ladder. A small washbasin with a mirror in one of the corners next to a toilet and shower. An ankle chain attached to a metal hoop on the wall. A fading fluro light that hadn't yet started flickering but was about to.

His fundamental humanity meant he couldn't pull himself free and breaking his ankle to try and slip the chain over his foot wasn't an option. He'd need to, at the very least, crawl across the room and then climb a step-ladder before finding his way to a phone. He could not do that quickly with only one leg. Hell, not even a werewolf could do that with only one leg.

He'd just have to wait until his captors came and told him what they wanted. Probably torture him for a bit. Definitely some humiliation thrown in the mix. Then he could work out what he could do next.

Waiting was hell. His thoughts were whirling around and around trying to piece together clues. Trying to work out how long it would take him to die. Trying to understand what the hell was happening. Thinking about the essay he'd been writing for AP History and how it linked up with the Bestiary and if there was a way he could cite the Bestiary as evidence of folklore traditions being brought over from Europe.

He was rubbing his hands up and down his arms and legs, tapping out an irregular beat which sometimes slipped into Bach or Kanye West before skittering across into a different beat.

His throat was scratchy and dry, his mouth was filling with saliva he swallowed down ineffectually in an attempt to quench his thirst. His stomach had stopped aching but sent him intermittent pangs followed by numbness as if to remind him that anytime he felt like food, his stomach would be on board with it. He dropped off and then woke shivering and unable to rest comfortably. He wasn't sure if he was shaking from the cold or the adderall withdrawal.

Time had lost all meaning.

God, he hoped his father was ok. He hoped his father was eating well, wasn't drinking himself into hospital or a stupor. Surely someone was looking after him? Surely he would be found soon?

There was a creak

Then a ladder appeared in his line of sight.

Then a pair of polished shoes.

Then the bottom of suit.

Then a back covered with a blazer.

Then a head of dark brown hair.

The figure turned and his heart stopped. 

Hands reached up and fixed a tie, thin lips twisted into a smirk:

"Well, Mr Stilinski, I assume you'd enjoy the privilege of conducting some, shall we say, ablutions before we get started?"

"Go fuck yourself" he spat and watched as Mr Harris' eyes darkened.

The other man took a controlled step forward and then spoke evenly, enunciating with a precision that sent a shiver up his spine.

"That was eminently unwise, Mr Stilinski. One might even say it was stupid. If you were to stop and focus on your situation for one second you might consider the fact that I am holding you captive. That there is nothing to stop me from acting on those violent impulses you inspire. That I decide what and whether you eat. I am your God, Mr Stilinski. It would be prudent not to anger me any more than you already have. I don't have time for histrionics or punishment right now," as he twisted his wrist to show a shiny watch "but I think not eating or drinking until I return home should serve as sufficient warning. Don't test me again, I won't be so generous."

Then he turned on his heel and left, pulling up the ladder and slamming the trapdoor closed.

Stiles was left alone with his thoughts which, thankfully, had a new direction to take. They were spinning and trying to find any evidence that his chemistry teacher knew about werewolves, or was the Darach, or was in league with the Alpha pack. Apart from getting drunk and having sex with Kate Argent, there was nothing. No turn of phrase or pointed look. No citations or run ins with the law. No absences or behavioural changes on the full moon. Admittedly fatigue, hunger, and adrenaline could be slowing down his facilities but if there was something he was sure he would have thought of it in, what would have to be at least, seven hours before Mr Harris returned.

The second time the trapdoor opened and his captor descended, Stiles remained silent. He was rewarded with a trip to the toilet and a bowl of soup. There wasn't a spoon though, which forced him to lap at it like a dog or risk spilling it, something he'd been warned against. Mr Harris' eyes were fixed on his mouth the entire time which did nothing to stop his mind from skittering along trains of thought which traced from sex dungeon to rape.

When he finished, placing the bowl on the floor, Mr Harris was leaning against the wall, blazer folded on the floor next to him, tie loosened, and top button undone. 

"Now, Mr Stilinski, I think it's only fair that I tell you exactly what you're doing here. You are here because your incompetent father ruined my life. If it wasn't for his relentless interrogation and questioning, if it wasn't for him marking me down as a suspect in an arson investigation, I could have been out of this dystopian hellscape of a third rate town, teaching at schools which actually have funding for a sport that is relevant to society. I would not be stuck watching snot-nosed brats pretend to be important when all they really are are tiny little fish in the sea. I would not be watching an inept sheriff allow society to disintegrate around him."

Stiles' heart was racing, his tongue was bleeding warm and tingly where he'd bitten it to stop himself from speaking, his hands were clenched into fists so tight his nails were cutting into flesh. He couldn't speak though, not until he knew exactly what was coming.

"You are here because I needed, shall we say, a new exercise regimen and you, with those big brown eyes and those plump lips, you are too delectable to pass up."

His heart stopped. He couldn't hide from it anymore. Blood was rushing through his ears, the world spun, Mr Harris was talking about how "eminently fuckable" he was, how completely irresistible, how this was a win-win situation but he couldn't... he couldn't... There wasn't enough air. There wasn't enough air and there was bile crawling up his throat and Mr Harris was stepping closer. 

A finger was running across his lip and his thoughts narrowed to that one point.

Hands were pulling at his boxers and he couldn't move.

Eyes were roving across his naked flesh and he wanted to shrink all the way down.

There was a sigh and then...

and then...

and then...

he screamed.


	2. During

The third time Stiles saw Mr Harris, he pressed himself as tightly as he could against the corner of the room. His heart was beating so fast in his throat that he thought he would choke on it, his palms were sweaty, there were dried tear tracks on his face, and he was terrified of the inevitable. Nothing happened, though, which was a surprise. Instead Mr Harris threw him a chocolate "as a reward," and placed a plate with two sandwiches on it "to last all day" in front of him. Then he walked closer to the mattress, watching with apparent amusement in his eyes as Stiles shrank back. He stood there for a while, foot just touching the mattress, dangling a bottle of water from his hand and spoke:

"Anything to say, Mr Stilinski?"

Stiles did, in fact, have things to say that wouldn't be wise to voice. There was a skittering nervous part of him urging  _quiet_ and  _hide_ and  _appease_ which he scathingly thought made him a bit too much like prey and he refused to be prey. 

"Yeah, actually, I do. I thought, you know, sometimes, that I'd let you go on some mad power-trip by giving me shit grades and bullying me because I thought about how pathetic it must be that that was the only way you could eke out some semblance of control in your life and I could be generous. Make your life worth living. And now, it turns out, you're nothing more than a weak ass kiddy fiddling pervert who couldn't -"

A hand shot out and slammed his head against the wall so hard his jaw ached. Mr Harris was breathing heavily and then he took five long steps back, until he was out of reach of Stiles' chain. He locked his eyes onto Stiles' and then deliberately placed the water bottle on the ground.

"I was hoping, Mr Stilinski, that you would prove yourself to be well-bred and thank me for my generosity in bringing you food and drink, but I see that was too lofty a goal. Nothing a little training won't fix."

Then he turned and left, pulling the ladder up behind him as he left.

Stiles couldn't help it, his jaw hurt and his body ached and he was so cold he longed for a blanket to curl up with. Instead he stared at the darkening concrete underneath the water bottle and thought. He knew how these things went and unless the kidnapper made an obvious mistake it could be a very, very long time before he was free.

Colleen Stan had been held for seven years.

Jaycee Lee Dugard had been held for eighteen years.

Katya Martynova and Lena Samokhina had been held for almost four years.

Steven Staynor had been held for seventeen years.

God, he felt so stupid. 

He was a sheriff's son, he knew all about all the ways that humans could be monstrous. Yet he'd let his guard down, hadn't he? Assumed that bad things came from the supernatural and hadn't he gotten cocky? He was the boy who ran with wolves, nothing permanent touched him. He hoped Scott or Derek would find him but they hadn't had much luck with Erica or Boyd and they, just like he had, would assume he'd been taken for supernatural reasons.

And the police? God, the police! He had the worst possible profile for a missing person. He'd been reported missing before and hadn't told the police what had happened. He'd become withdrawn and secretive. He ran with a new crowd, some of which were suspected drug users or persons of interest in ongoing cases. He'd abducted a fellow student and chained him up in a stolen police van as a prank. He didn't look like a kidnap victim, he looked like a gang member who'd gotten in too deep and ran away. 

He reached out a hand and nibbled on the sandwich, it tasted like ash on his tongue, and swallowed heavily. The condensation from the water bottle had started to dry up, concrete returning to the right shade. It was just out of reach, tantalisingly close and yet too far away. His throat was scratching, his mouth was filling with useless saliva, there was no relief.

He wasn't sure how long he stayed there until Mr Harris came down again but it had been hell. He couldn't move freely. He had nothing to distract himself with. And he knew exactly what was coming - constant, unrelenting, rape. 

It turned out he was wrong, it was more than that.

Mr Harris had been "looking forward to conducting some more advanced experiments" and decided that he was the perfect test subject. There was hot wax dripped and peeled on his skin. There were acids and lotions rubbed and poured that stung or burned or bit into his flesh. There were knives and needles and there was purposely rancid food he was forced to eat. There were steel tipped boots in his side and things that...

Well, he'd never blame anyone for vanilla sex ever again.

Vanilla sex sounded far too adventurous for him.

And sometimes, there were rewards. There was a heavy blanket brought into his room after he'd begged and behaved. There were books from the school reading list and books clearly picked up at a yard sale. (The book about proper etiquette written in the fifties was illuminating and distracting.) There was a radio set to a classical music station which grew on him until he started to have opinions that were potentially informed. There were sweets, and supervised showers with lotions and everything, and if he was very, very lucky a serving of curly fries.

In the beginning Mr Harris had talked about asphyxiation and flaying and disembowelment and drowning but, as time went on, and Stiles' grew pliant and quiet it stopped. He'd asked about it once and his teacher had cupped his face in his hands then said: 

"I put so much effort into training you, and you've finally started pleasing me, why would I throw that away?"  

Despite himself, Stiles felt a tiny bit of tension in his stomach fade away, he was doing something right, he was staying alive. Then Mr Harris continued so speak, looking deep into his eyes: 

"Besides, the hope and and despair and not-knowing on your father's face, it's so much more exquisite and so much more unyielding than closure."

He developed a routine. He'd wake in the morning to find food for the day on the floor, and he'd listen to the Morning Medley until he got bored. Then he'd stand up and do some exercises to stay fit before picking up a book to read. If he couldn't stand, he'd do what he could lying flat on his back. Sometimes he'd pace the length of his mattress while reading. Sometimes he'd dramatically reenact parts of the book. Sometimes he'd set himself essay questions and analyse themes for fun or exam questions if the book wasn't fiction. At precisely midday, the radio would syndicate BBC News and he'd hear about what was happening in the world for an hour. He'd listen to some more classical music, and obsessively tidy his cell - he'd pull his blanket straight and reorder his books however he felt like it. When the Drive Home With Dave segment started he'd place himself in the middle of the mattress, bow his head, and wait on his knees. Then he'd deal with whatever Mr Harris felt like doing that night.

Mr Harris only came at night, unless it was the weekend, which was, he thought, why none of the werewolves at Beacon Hills High had scented him on his teacher's skin. His scent had time to fade.

Then, one afternoon, exactly one year, ten months, and fifteen days since his abduction Dave started his segment talking about the arrest of a High School Chemistry teacher after evidence surfaced that he'd been involved in the manufacture and distribution of child pornography. Stiles felt his gaze shoot to the bathroom mirror, it was the only place he could think a camera would be hidden and he couldn't be sure but... maybe.

Distantly he made out murmuring from upstairs and the sound of multiple pairs of boots. That was unusual. Mr Harris never brought anyone home with him.

There was a wild, desperate hope pounding in his chest. He could be wrong but God he hoped he wasn't.

His voice wouldn't work. He'd open his mouth and scream but nothing came out, his brain so terrified of what would happen if he was wrong that it was refusing to let out a sound. He heard the boots move around upstairs and his eyes darted around searching for anything which could be loud enough to attract attention. He kept trying to yell or scream but then his eyes fell on the stash of torture and sex implements Mr Harris kept next to the bathroom. He grit his teeth and stood up. He turned his chained foot ninety degrees, stood behind a pile of books, closed his eyes and then purposefully stepped forward with his good foot. As predicted, he fell, also as predicted he heard the sickening crunch of bone. 

Tears sprang to his eyes, his hands were scraped, tiny pinpricks of blood appearing but he leaned forward and bent his foot until he could slip it out from the chain. Then he crawled over to the pile and grabbed a long, metal baseball bat. Turned and started to crawl. Damn it, he was moving so slowly, they could leave, they could leave and then... He finally pulled himself back over to the chain and used all his energy to slam the bat against the chain. He heard the clang reverberate and then he heard the footsteps upstairs pause. He brought the bat down again, and again, and again until finally he heard the familiar creak of the trapdoor. He turned his head and stared obsessively as the step-ladder was pushed down. 

First a pair of sturdy shoes, which was a positive sign.

Then a pair of tan slacks, which was another positive sign.

Then a dark utility belt, which was a positive identification that help had finally arrived.

Stiles couldn't help it, he started to cry and began to limp closer, flinging himself in her arms when she reached the bottom and clinging so tightly her skin turned white.

In the background, Pachelbel played.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the support! It was incredibly motivating for me. I hope you enjoyed this chapter! I have a rough idea of how I want to end this but the topic is so dark and distressing that I do need to be in the right head-space to write. Researching other cases where people have been captured is just heartbreaking, especially when people suspected something was off and did nothing. If you get the feeling something's not quite right, do or say something to someone.


	3. After

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now... the long awaited conclusion.
> 
> Also, head the updated warnings because this gets dark.

Stiles had thought, in his happier moments, that things would be easier when he was out, when he was freed. Sure it was easier in some respects, not being tortured and raped by his teacher definitely made things better but in others...

See, the thing was, while he was down There he'd made a deal with himself. The only way he was going to survive was to hide himself. To lock up the parts of him that wanted to scream and claw and bite. To lock away his pain and fear and sadness. To ignore the fact that even though he wasn't expecting to be saved, he still felt betrayed every day he remained trapped. If he gave into that for even one second, he ran the risk of being brutally murdered. 

And he would have been brutally murdered. On his dad's birthday he'd been a bit too volatile for Mr Harris' tastes and the next day he'd brought down _The Lovely Bones_ and taken away all Stiles' other books. The novel was disturbing in and of itself - he had unfavourable opinions about its popularity - but Mr Harris had thoughtfully highlighted and annotated every description of the narrator's rape, murder and disposed of body parts. He'd thrown up until he couldn't and then he dry heaved instead. Mr Harris had grinned when he saw that.

They hadn't even expected to find him There in the first place. Mr Harris had been at a friend's place, helping the man hurt his nephew and profit from it, when he'd been arrested. There _had_ been a camera behind the mirror, but it saved all the footage to a usb which was plugged only into an air gapped computer. Mr Harris had been clever, they'd had no idea. It had been pure luck that he'd been found. Sometimes Stiles felt like he would break apart at the thought of how much longer he could have been caged or how quickly he would have died of starvation and dehydration if he hadn't broken his ankle.

But this was what he was talking about. He was supposed to be having a fucking lovely dinner with his dad, he was sitting at the table, and his dad wasn't at work or drinking alcohol, so he should be happy. Instead his mind decided to go stick him back There and now he was shaking and hyperventilating while his dad tried to remind him of where he was. 

His therapist said that he was only fully experiencing the trauma now, because his brain was finally in a safe space to process and "for want of a better term, run a defrag."

Which was fucking great. He'd thought it couldn't get worse when Mr Harris was balls deep in his ass, or carving acid into his skin, but it turned out he was wrong about that too. 

And his dad kept looking at him with so much guilt that it made Stiles heart hurt just to look at him. The problem was that he'd been right when he thought that the police would draw the wrong conclusions. So had the public and independent investigator that had been brought in, for that matter. His dad hadn't been sheriff for long after his abduction - not with a gang member and potential fugitive as a son. He'd cleared that one up by hyperventilating hysterically in his interview, babbling about how he couldn't believe he'd been curious about seeing crime scenes and bodies, couldn't believe that he'd locked someone up as a prank. 

"It's not a prank," he'd sobbed or screamed, he wasn't sure which. "Why the fuck did you all accept that it was a prank?" 

That hadn't been a good day.

He'd heard his dad on the phone to Tara one night, when he got up to get a glass of water - not because he was thirsty, just because he could. 

"I didn't look to hard, I wasn't sure if he'd run away but I thought, I thought it was the most likely explanation and I thought, I loved my son and I thought that maybe, maybe, it would be better if we never found him and, God, what kind of father thinks that? I should have - six hundred and eighty two days, Tara. I've done the math, he spent six hundred and eighty two days, twenty-two hours, and fifty-four minutes trapped and - it's my fault, it's all my fault. He did it, he did it because of me and then I couldn't even, I couldn't even find my son."

He couldn't help it, it hurt like a motherfucker to have everything confirmed. 

Anyway, he might have been cleared by the police but people in town talked. He knew, he heard them sometimes. Sure they felt bad for him, thought what happened to him was horrific, and treated him like that but they also thought the police had ignored his probable crimes because they decided he'd suffered enough. He'd heard a lot of parents say to their children, "That poor Stilinski kid, just awful what happened to him, but he's not safe, so you stay away from him you hear. Be nice to him because - Emily put that back where you found it or so help me God - he's been through hell but be careful, ok?" or some variation thereupon.

He wasn't much help with the pack, either. The first time they'd talked about killing the latest threat he was hit with a visceral flashback of that time Mr Harris had tied him down and then numbered his body parts in order of their potential dismemberment. He'd gotten off on that too, the sick bastard. He was good at the research though, which helped him feel like he wasn't a useless fucking waste of space. And they kept looking at him mournfully and so, achingly, apologetic that it made him want to scream and throw things. He had done that once, watching the vase soar through the air and hit Scott in the face was quite cathartic. Which was why it had been quickly followed by everything he could get his hands on until he collapsed. 

Derek was the only one who understood, really understood what he was going through. Which was another thing Mr Harris had taken from him "I never want to be like Derek" he'd said and meant it. He'd seen in Derek the dark reflection of who he could so easily become and he'd tried to hard but that choice had been violently taken away from him too. He saw Derek in too much of himself now and he comprehended a bit better how naive and sanctimonious he'd been when he'd decided that. Derek was sad, and hurting, and they hadn't helped at all. They'd rubbed salt in his wounds, just like everyone was doing to him now.

He'd testified at Mr Harris' trial, terrified out of his mind that somehow his teacher would escape and recapture him, but he spoke and didn't stop speaking. He spilled every adjective he'd hidden in his throat while in captivity, every cruel and honest thought he'd had, he mentioned every depravity he could and watched in a vicious, malicious, satisfaction when the death sentence was returned. He knew Mr Harris wouldn't die, that's what made him so vindictively gleeful, no one had been executed since 2006. Mr Harris would get to experience the mind-numbing knowledge that his death could come at any moment while locked away at someone else's pleasure. The asshole didn't last very long, one of the other inmates had broken into his cell and shivved him "he was a real sick fuck" the killer said to the warden afterwards, then refused to speak another word.

He spent a lot of time in the preserve now, sitting amongst the trees for hours upon hours until his stomach growled or his dad got back from his new job in the city. Some days he lay flat on his back, staring up at the fathomless blue sky, looking at the clouds as they passed above him, feeling the wind against his skin, the grass comfortable and soft beneath him. He looked and looked and sometimes he thought about how the sky didn't really ever end, it just thinned until it was space. The entire universe enveloping him, when he'd thought he'd die between four concrete walls. He liked the nights the best, the air was crisp and cool and he could actually see the stars and planets and meteors that were always there.

Some days, he sat with his back pressed to a tree, feeling the bark and acclimatising to it. He'd look down through the trees and see life all around him. At dusk, a rabbit. Or during the day, a deer and its fawn. New life, continuing and existing. He'd watch a butterfly or moth flutter past him, listen to the way the trees rustled. It was, he thought, like they were talking - an ephemeral whispered conversation that he could spent his life listening to and never comprehend.

Some days, he took a notebook with him and wrote. He wrote and wrote and wrote. Invectives flowed from his pen onto paper. He wrote about how much he hated everyone around him, how scared he was, every silly, inconsequential thought that he used to speak without caring who listened or even if it would hurt to hear. He ripped pages out of and tore them viciously apart, screaming as the wind picked up the pieces and carried them away. 

Some days, he just moved. He ran to feel how fast he could go, to remind himself that he could go as far as he wanted and nothing would jerk him back. Or he would dance like he was Julie fucking Andrews, just to feel the way his body moved when he commanded it to, just to revel in the freedom of movement. He'd feel the grass beneath his bare feet and not even thorns deterred him.

He saw Derek in the preserve sometimes, isolated from the pack just like he was, reviled and pitied in equal measure just like he was, and clinging stubbornly to life just like he was. 

"Let's just leave," he said, one week before he was due to sit the GED. One week before he could take his pick of colleges, change his name, and escape. One week before he was dragging his dad away from this hellmouth of mundane and magical evil if it was the last thing he did. Derek was silent, staring at the deep, placid waters of a small pond in a clearing of the preserve. Then he nodded, once, almost imperceptibly. 

He thought as he was packing up his childhood bedroom that living his life was the biggest fuck you that he could give Mr Harris. He'd tried to take it away, tried to destroy everything that made Stiles himself, but he'd risen like the pheonix and burnt Mr Harris to the ground in his wake. 

 _I'm a leaf on the wind_ he thought, staring up at the sky,  _watch me soar, motherfucker._

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Hope I did this justice! I'll write another chapter or two if there's interest or I feel the urge.


End file.
